


Live forever

by ChopinWorshipper



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Transphobia, Thirty-Years-War (in one chapter), Trans Male Character, because the alternative is gross af, but dr faust is a necromancer anyway, but this is about this historical figure, gretchen is his daughter, hint: it's Dr. Faust, no mephisto here, not really in either of the fandoms, which is a shame, which there apparently was no tag for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22422067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChopinWorshipper/pseuds/ChopinWorshipper
Summary: After several centuries of immortality, Dr. Johann Georg Faust reflects on his life and his life choices.
Relationships: Nicolas Flamel/Perenelle Flamel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CelticSaemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticSaemi/gifts), [moon_hedgehog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/gifts).



> Everyone in the fandoms writes about Marlowe's or Goethe's plays, but I don't see anything about the historical figure Faust, so I decided to make a fanfic based on him rather than the works (there is a lot of fantasy involved though, because this is one of my fanfics and of course there is).
> 
> For his birthdate, it says either 1480 or 1466. I decided to go with the latter, because it corresponds more with some other dates, like when he made all of his doctorates. Ü

Johann Georg Faust had been called a lot of things throughout his life.

Charlatan, sorcerer, madman, heretic, liar, necromancer, criminal, hell child, accomplice of the Devil … he had stopped counting all the insults that had been thrown at his ginger-haired head.

Some of them were true, others weren't.

A charlatan? No.

Sure, he was versed in the art of stage magic (and used it more than often), but his magic powers were genuine. They had been since his birth.

Of course he had no idea where they had come from.

He didn't know why he could read minds, foresee the future and perform other things that other people weren't capable of. But it was so, hence he took it and used his abilities to their full potential. This was nothing to dwell on and overthink anyway.

With mixed feelings he stood in front of the grave.

A name and numbers on a tombstone made of the most expensive stone he had been able to afford.

He owed it to her.

Once he had been both grateful and resentful towards her for the drastic things she had done to make sure that he could go to the best schools around.

He had been resentful, because others had called him a bastard and a demon child, had bullied him for always asking questions, had feared him because of his abilities – and for all of this he had blamed her.

He had been grateful, because she had supported him and believed in him through it all, had called him a miracle and a gifted, blessed child, had told him that he was special and meant it.

It was because of her, that he was what he was.

He was a universal genius, a bachelor, physician, philosopher, teacher, alchemist, astrologer, medium … so many things. Yet, it wasn't enough for him, he wanted to learn so much more, more than a human could possibly learn in a single lifetime.

But it was only because of her, that he could even acquire all the knowledge.

That he could even _read and write_.

With a bitter smile, he placed the flower bouquet onto the grass.

“Hello, mother. I'm sorry I didn't visit you sooner.”

When he was 32 years old, he stumbled over an old, mysterious book.

Being the incorrigible glutton for knowledge he was, he had acquired it immediately.

The book spoke of hidden and forbidden arts and awoke something in him that he had never known was there.

Another kind of hunger.

Until now he had thought that perhaps he could try to be content with being a respected doctor and master of arts, work at a university and help lots of students become another generation of highly educated, arrogant twits, who flaunted their degrees and doctorates. Perhaps he would have married, even though he had never loved in his whole life.

That was out of question now.

Now he wanted something else.

He wanted to become a sorcerer. And if not that, at least the great alchemist of his time.

Oh to be on the same step of so many other great alchemists, perhaps accomplish even more than they did …

He wanted immortality.

Three years later, he hadn't achieved immortality yet.

Sure, he was famous – his name was known in a surprisingly large part of the Holy Roman Empire and it would be known for a very long time.

But metaphorical immortality wasn't enough!

He wanted the real deal!

He wanted to live forever and be forever young! He wanted to make all of his dreams come true, see the world, learn everything there was to learn, maybe write it down and share it with everyone – so many things!

And he would do anything to be able to.

Giving up was not an option. He wasn't like everyone else. And he wouldn't die at fifty or less, like everyone else.

When he was 37 years old, he looked in the mirror and scowled at his own reflection.

He was beginning to show signs of old age; there were bags under his eyes and soft wrinkles around them. And were those frowning wrinkles on his forehead?

From what he had read in the book, the elixir of immortality would stop the ageing process, but it wouldn't make him younger.

He had to find it quickly, before he started to look like some wizened old hermit!

A few weeks after discovering his first wrinkles, he spotted his first grey hair and spiralled into a mental breakdown.

He put more effort into his alchemy and not just once it ended in small explosions.

On top of that, he had to evade authorities, who accused him of the worst crimes and angry mobs that thought he was a witch or possessed.

_No wonder I'm already growing old and grey._

When he was 38 years old, he discovered how to make pure gold.

Now he couldn't be that far away from immortality too.

Besides, he could now grow stinking rich.

Sure, he knew how to present himself and often read horoscopes for rich people – then, he was also a surgeon and miracle healer – one of the best, may he add! No false humility!

But if he suddenly became stupid rich, people would ask questions and assume the craziest stuff – or find out his secret. That would get him into trouble with … basically everyone who desperately needed or wanted gold.

“I need to save the gold-making for times, when I really need it”, he mumbled to himself, “And only enough to live fine.”

He wasn't quite 44 years old, when he achieved his goal by accident.

Once he had made gold, but forgot to empty the containers with the gold-making substances afterwards – it had been late and he had been overtired from lack of sleep.

When he had discovered his mistake the next morning, he opened the vials to clean them of the gooey substances.

But as he scraped the remains off the glass, he found something in one of the vials.

His blue-grey eyes widened.

It was a small, red stone.

At first he thought it was a ruby and considered selling it to the next jeweller.

But as he held it into the light, it began to shine in rainbow colours and the light revealed thin golden veins within the red material.

This was something new!

Deciding that he wanted a better look, he put it in a bowl of water to wash the dirt off.

The water turned purple.

He quickly opened his book about hidden alchemy to make sure that this was what he thought it was.

And sure enough …

“Eureka!”, he whispered.

He had found the Philosophers' Stone!

After drinking the purple water – which had tasted horrible, by the way – he found the next morning, that his wrinkles were gone.

Sure, the bags under his eyes were still there – but he knew that they had little to do with his age anyway.

He had finally achieved his goal.

Overwhelmed with joy, he threw his head back and laughed and cried with sheer happiness.

_This is the best day of my life!_

When he was 51 years old, he realised that he wouldn't be able to hide his agelessness for much longer.

So far it was still easy to do so, as he wandered from place to place and no one knew how old he really was. Those were strangers, people he'd meet once and then never again.

But he was naturally a flashy and showy person with a remarkable appearance and a lot of people had at least heard of him.

Sooner or later, some elderly person, who had met him or heard of him before, would recognise him and question, why he looked so young after so many years.

_I guess I will fake my death as soon as enough people ask me about my age._

He was 70 years old, when he decided that it was time to get lost.

Just a few days before, a little child in a nearby village had asked him to cure her sick grandfather and he had done so. Unfortunately, the old man had remembered meeting him 30 years before and had recognised him immediately. He had tried to convince the old man, that he was the son of the famous Doctor (of himself), but the other hadn't bought it and instead accused him of necromancy and devil worship, or witchcraft, as the inquisition and the common folk called it.

Technically, the old peasant was right. He was, by all standards, a necromancer, just as much as he was an alchemist, astrologer and surgeon.

Still, he couldn't help but take offence. He wasn't a worshipper of Satan!

“How dare you!”, he shouted in outrage, “I cure you for free out of goodness of my heart and this is how you thank me! The audacity! The gall to attack my honour like this! Had I known that I would be insulted like this, I wouldn't even have come here! Accused of witchcraft by a peasant I just cured, Jesus and Maria! Never have I been so mortified in my entire life! Oh, I have half a mind to go to court for this injury, but this isn't even worth it!”

Then he had rushed off, ere he did something he'd regret. The little girl had apologised for her grandfather's behaviour and thanked him for the help, but he had left the village the very same day.

Now he was sitting in a shoddy hotel room and contemplating on how he was to go about it.

He couldn't just vanish into thin air, that would raise suspicion.

“They need to think me dead.”

It was in 1541 – five years later – when he finally had all the things he needed for his plan.

Somehow he had managed to make a dummy that looked like him, without anyone noticing.

He bought a real hair wig, some old clothes and posed with that outfit in front of the mirror in his hotel room in Staufen. Good. He didn't look like himself at all.

Of course he could just have turned into an animal – by now he was capable of that – but the superstitious folks in the area tended to notice the sudden appearance of black animals rather than strangers coming and going.

Now he just had to choose which explosive he wanted to use.

He left a generous tip to the landlord as compensation for the room he was about to destroy.

Then he dressed the dummy in his own clothes, mixed the chemicals together and climbed out of the window over a wall, before they blew up.

The explosion was deafening, he saw debris and parts of his dummy flying over the wall and faintly heard the screams of the people in the hotel.

Just as he was about to bail, he heard someone exclaim: “The Devil himself has finally got him!”

He fumed, but swallowed his irritation. There was no time for losing his temper right now.

No one even took notice of him, as he left the borough, dressed as a poor citizen.

A few years later, he found that he had become something of a folk legend.

That amused him not just a little - and perhaps it flattered him too. It meant he had left enough of an impression for the people to still talk about him after his “death” - they often forgot about people quickly, once they were gone. But he would be remembered.

They would tell stories about him for a long time.

He was now immortal both literally and metaphorically.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Faust meets the Flamels.

It was 1550 and just like so many times before, he could never run fast enough.

Those blasted witch persecutions were getting out of control!

Yes, he was used to being persecuted.

For almost his entire life, he had been both revered and abhorred by people, who either were frightened of him and his powers or were simply malevolent.

He remembered a particularly nasty incident in 1507 (shortly after his 41st birthday), when he had been schoolmaster of a cram school in Sickingen. Someone had come and accused him of indulging in sodomy with some of the male students! Yes, he had lain with both men and women, but never had he touched his own pupils! Not to mention they had been mere children! This was wrong in so many ways! How had someone even got that idea?! Needless to say, he would have been severely punished, had he not escaped in time.

Never had he been so hurt in his entire life. Just the memory went down to his substance.

All the other times it blasphemy or outright heresy, witchcraft and similar fun stuff.

Nothing surprising in these days, in this war between the Catholics and the newly formed Protestant Church. The fact that he had real magic powers didn't exactly help matters, even though he had learned by now to keep his mouth shut (most of the time).

He was used to it.

But this was the 3rd time in five years that he had to flee from a bloodthirsty mob or a narrow-minded inquisition that wanted to see him burn! Some of them even had chased after him with firearms!

This was too much!

Having enough of this, he decided to migrate to France. He had heard that persecution wasn't as extreme there and he still remembered the time, before the Protestant Church had been a thing. Acting like a good Catholic, no one would notice him – he hoped.

Problem was just … he wasn't a good Catholic – or even a good Christian.

Never had been.

It had always been too suffocating for him to bear.

But he couldn't always go against the stream and hope that he wouldn't be hunted down with pitchforks and such for at least a week.

_Well, I guess I have no other choice. Perhaps I will be lucky and find an area that isn't wrecked by war and where the people are more relaxed than here._

Shortly before his 100th birthday, a French couple walked into his life to change it forever.

He had got into a bar fight and had to run from a group of thugs that obviously wanted to beat him to death.

Why trouble just flung itself around his neck was beyond him, but now was no time to ponder on that – he had to avoid getting lynched!

As he ran around a corner, he spied a chubby, friendly-looking woman sitting in front of a bookshop and embroidering a handkerchief, singing a gay tune.

He didn't think twice.

He ran over to her, fell onto his knees and begged: “Madame! Please, help me!”

For a second she seemed bewildered, but then she caught on instantly. She grabbed his wrist, pulled him up and pushed him inside the bookshop.

“Stay there _”_ , she ordered.

He pressed himself against the inside wall beside the door and tried to catch his breath.

Then he noticed the man standing behind the counter of the shop.

It was a tall, thin man with platinum blond hair and friendly, silvery eyes that looked at him curiously through big glasses. Probably the shop-owner and husband of the lady outside.

“Can I help you?”, he asked in French.

“Hide me, please!”, the other pleaded, “If you don't, I will die!”

The blond Frenchman rolled his eyes and told him to come behind the counter, which he did.

He curled together to fit under the counter.

Just as he had hidden, the door burst open and he heard the footsteps of several people.

“Have you seen this guy?”, one of them asked gruffly.

“What guy?”, the bookseller queried coolly, “Be more specific.”

“Some ugly ginger! About as big as me, with a fancy green cloak, black hat and white shirt! Looks like the Devil incarnate!”

Under the counter he felt his blood boil.

_Ugly ginger?! Devil incarnate?!_

Alright, he knew that he wasn't exactly handsome, but this was just incredibly insulting!

The rudeness seemed to agitate the blond bookseller as well, as he could see him tense up. But the man kept his cool.

“First of all, I didn't see an ugly ginger or anyone for that matter, for I was in here the entire time. Ask my wife, if she has seen anyone. She's the one who was sitting outside. Secondly, that's incredibly rude. Learn some manners. And thirdly, what do you want in the first place? Beat the unfortunate man up and rob him?”

Awkward silence.

“I suspected as much”, the bookseller remarked scornfully. “Anyway, you won't find him here. Now get out of my bookshop.”

The blond radiated such calm authority that the thugs hurried to obey his request.

After they were gone, the bookseller and his refugee waited for a bit to make sure that the mob wasn't still lurking outside.

Then the latter could hear the door open and tensed up again.

But it was just the lady from earlier.

“They're gone”, she sighed, “Such ruffians. People really have no manners these days.”

“Really”, her husband agreed, before bending down to inform their refugee that he could come out.

“Thank you so much”, he groaned in relief. “I thought I was going to die!”

Well, not exactly that, but he definitely would have been worse for wear.

“You're welcome”, the Frenchman responded, “You're not the first one we've had to save from a bloodthirsty mob. What was their problem anyway? Are you a Jew or an _huguenot_?”

“No”, the German snarled. He was something far worse, but knew better than to say that out loud. “Just a stupid bar fight.”

Their thoughts told him that they didn't buy it, but they didn't say that out loud.

He on the other hand was curious, who his saviours were and decided to dive into their minds.

A quick scan made his eyes widen in shock.

“By the way”, the other man spoke up, “We haven't introduced ourselves yet. My name is-”

“Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel!”, the redhead whispered. “No way!”

Their eyes widened in return.

“How do you know?”, Perenelle Flamel demanded to know. “Who _are_ you?”

He swallowed and stretched out a hand.

“I'm Dr. Johann Georg Faust. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

He was pleasantly surprised, when they invited him to stay with them for the time being.

“We have heard of you”, Nicolas Flamel stated, as they were having dinner.

“The German merchants who come here speak of you. They tell wondrous tales, one more fantastic or ludicrous than the other.”

“And some very blasphemous things”, Perenelle told him. “That you boasted of being able to perform the miracles of Christ.”

He frowned. “I can't remember ever saying that. In fact, I'm quite sure that I never said that. I admit that I'm not a humble man, but this is defamation. What other things did they say about me?”

“That you were a worshipper of Satan, a son of the Devil, a witch or a warlock, a fraud … charming things like that”, Nicolas answered ironically.

“Charming indeed”, the ginger-haired alchemist grumbled sourly.

Perenelle quickly amended: “But they also said you were a great doctor, astrologer and healer. An encyclopedist, they say.”

Their guest smiled. “Thank you. I have studied and practised long and hard to become exactly that.”

“Out of curiosity though”, Nicolas spoke up again, “How much of the unflattering things is true? I mean, you're obviously like us. But how did you know who we are?”

He wasn't sure, if he should entrust that secret to the Flamels.

“What ever it is, you can tell us”, the blond assured him, “We're three immortal alchemists, who discovered the Philosophers' Stone. It doesn't get much more unhallowed than that.”

He took a deep breath, before telling them this: “I can read minds and see the future. And … I'm a black mage. But I have never hurt anyone, I swear!”, he added hurriedly. “I just use these abilities to get by!”

“We believe you”, Perenelle assured him and took his hand. “Two centuries have told us to know when someone lies.”

She and her husband exchanged a look.

“Well, since you obviously have nowhere else to go, Dr. Faust, why don't you stay with us?”, she offered, “Alchemists should stick together, especially immortals like us.”

Her husband nodded. “It would be refreshing to have a comrade on our journeys through the world. We could always use help around the household and we could generally support each other.”

The German alchemist and necromancer thought for a bit.

Now that he thought about it, his life had been pretty lonely so far. He couldn't remember ever having friends, nor had he ever been in love.

“Sure. As long as you don't mind wandering around with a mad alchemist who practises witchcraft, is way too showy and magically attracts trouble wherever he goes.”

The Flamels exchanged another glance.

Then they smiled and shook hands with him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flamels find out that Dr. Faust is trans. They do NOT take it well (meaning Nicolas doesn't take it well).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N: This chapter involves transphobia, conservative Catholicism and a normally nice character being a dick)

All was well for a while.

He and the Flamels travelled around Europe and it was fun, despite the trouble they ran into from time to time.

Thirty years after meeting, they were in England and staying with the famous alchemist John Dee.

He wasn't an immortal like them and they had no intention of sharing their secrets (or even their real identities) with him.

But he was interested in the Englishman's books, so he copied them, whenever Dee wasn't there.

A lot of it contained knowledge of alchemy as well as black magic. Many of the notes were disturbingly accurate and he made note to seize Dee's books as soon as the man passed away. No one but him should ever see all the dark knowledge hidden in there.

He didn't trust John Dee as far as he could throw him.

That was hypocritical, as he himself was a quite shady figure, but he couldn't help it.

“Why so glum, young man?”, Dee questioned one morning, as they were having breakfast.

He smiled innocently. “Oh, nothing major, Professor. I just have those moods from time to time. Nothing to be concerned about.”

That was a half truth, as he did have mood swings quite often. The fact that they almost always came with intense abdominal pain one week every month didn't exactly help either.

Dee and the Flamels had already begun to suspect things, which made him even more careful than he already was.

Perenelle seemed to be especially suspicious, which made him nervous. After all, she was a very astute woman. But she remained silent, which he was grateful for.

It had taken even himself quite a long time to come to terms with what he was. So long to realise that he wasn't insane (at least not in that regard), not a phony, not possessed by a demon.

And if it had taken _him_ so long, how would the Flamels react, once they actually found out? Sure, they had accepted his practising of black magic and even his preternatural gifts.

However … despite being alchemists (a very unhallowed profession) and comparatively tolerant, they were pious – and very Catholic. In fact, they had already run into a lot of trouble here in England for just that. But that wasn't the problem. Even though the Flamels were far ahead of the times, they were still children of the 14th century and that leaked through from time to time. Especially Nicolas could be rather … _judgemental_ sometimes (Perenelle not so much, she was just a bit prudish).

They were just your average, clean-cut old couple.

An _immortal_ , average, clean-cut old couple practising _dark alchemy._

Which made the whole thing even funnier.

Nevertheless, he was determined that they shouldn't find out, lest he'd lose the only friends he'd ever had.

Of course they found out, because that was inevitable, when you spent decades living with two immortal alchemists.

Predictably enough, he had forgot to lock the door one day and even more predictably enough, the Flamels had burst in on him getting dressed.

Just as he was in the process of binding his chest, Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel stumbled in.

“Jean, you won't believe what – WHAT THE HECK???”

He hurriedly covered himself, but it was already too late.

Perenelle didn't seem very surprised.

But her husband promptly flipped his wit. Before he could throw a fit, however, she put a hand on his shoulder. “Let us leave, so he can dressed in peace.”

“ _He_?!?”, Nicolas hissed, but a look from his wife silenced him and she pushed her husband out of the room.

The younger man, now finally alone again, sank onto his knees and ruffled his hair in distress.

“Fuck …”

He took longer than usual to get dressed, to buy himself time to come up with the explanation he now had to give them. After a few minutes, he gave up. They probably wouldn't listen to him anyway, so why bother.

At that opportunity, he also began to pack his things.

With the way Nicolas had just reacted …

When he finally came downstairs, the Flamels were sitting at the table, looking at him expectantly.

He sighed and sat down.

“I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“Absolutely”, Nicolas agreed coolly. “When were you planning to tell us that you're a woman?”

His eye twitched. “Never, because I'm _not_ a woman!”

The blond opposite him inhaled sharply. “You're still trying to keep that up, after we have seen it?”

“Nicolas, let him explain …”, Perenelle began, but her husband cut her off (which wasn't like him at all): “Stop calling her a 'he', Perenelle, when-”

Now it was the German necromancer's turn to cut the other off: “Since when do you snap at your wife for using the correct pronouns? I am not a 'she'! I never was!”

“Yes, you are!”, the Frenchman snapped back, “Look, I have no problem with a female alchemist or a witch – I wouldn't be married to Perenelle, if I did – but stop pretending to be a man! You're not one!”

“Yes, I am!”, the younger one snarled angrily, “I'm just as much of a man as you are!”

“You actually believe that?! You're either possessed or confused!”

“Nicolas!”, Perenelle protested, but it was too late now.

Both men were blinded by anger and unwilling to listen to her voice of reason.

“So this is what you think? That I'm a madwoman blinded by the Devil into believing to be a man?! Or that I didn't like the miserable life as a woman and chose to crossdress, so I would finally have rights and male privileges?! Well, I have tidings for you: I am mad, but not in that regard! My mind is perfectly sound! Is it my fault that I was born into the wrong body?!”

Nicolas Flamel's eyes narrowed: “The Lord doesn't make mistakes. If He chose for you to be a woman, then-”

“Well, if God doesn't make mistakes, then this was a really cruel joke on his part!”

“How dare you defile the name of the Lord! Speaking of names, what is your real one?!”

“This _is_ my real one! Johann Georg Faust is my actual name and I don't give a damn, if you like it or not!”

“Oh really?! Well, I don't believe you anymore, after you have lied to us for decades!”

“Nicolas!”, Perenelle tried again, but was – once again – ignored.

He stood up, furious. “I wasn't lying! I didn't tell you, because I knew you would react like this! Why do you anyway?! You have never minded my sorcery or necromancy or my telepathic or prophetic abilities and you're making a fuss over _this_?!” He opened his arms wide and gestured at himself. “Fine, I have a woman's organs! So what? That doesn't make me any less of a man! Why do you insist that it does, when your wife accepts it, like a reasonable adult?!”

Nicolas took a deep breath: “Well, not everyone can have Perenelle's angelic patience! But it doesn't change the fact that you hid this from us. Speaking of which, how can you be so calm about this, Perenelle?!”

The brown-haired woman shrugged: “I have known. Figured it out decades ago.”

“What?!”

“Think about it, _mon cher mari_ _¹_. How skittish he is, that no one should see him naked. The mood swings and abdominal pains he has once a month and how he always washes his clothes himself during that time frame. And how desperately he has been looking for a way to change into another human change too, rather than just into animals. How defensive he is towards ambitious women, crossdressers or effeminate men – basically towards everyone who doesn't act like the broad masses do. How he drinks cold and strong waters to make his voice deeper. I thought it was pretty obvious.”

Her husband's eyes twitched. “So … everyone but me has known that _she_ is actually-”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not a she!”

He threw his arms up in frustration. “You know what, I give up. I'm sick of trying to explain myself to you, if you refuse to listen.”

Angry and upset, he went back upstairs and finished packing his things.

Just as he had finished packing, Perenelle came in. For a few seconds she looked surprised, that the room was suddenly so empty, but then she realised: “You're leaving?”

“Yes”, he hissed and put his gloves on. “If your husband won't accept me anymore, I don't see any reason to stay.”

“My husband will come around”, she tried to placate him.

“Not in the near future”, he muttered and slid into his fur cloak.

“Please don't leave”, she pleaded, “It won't be the same without you. You're like a son to me and once my Nic has calmed down and gets a clear head, he will be more open and accepting, I know it. He always is.”

But the German alchemist shook his head. “He doesn't want me to hang around anymore and I don't want to deal with his intolerance. I'm returning to Germany.”

The Frenchwoman realised that she wouldn't persuade him to stay and gave him a tight hug.

“I believe that you're a man”, she told him.

Something about that made his lower lip tremble and his eyes sting. But he composed himself and hugged back.

“Has anyone ever told you, that you're the best of women?”

“My husband tells me all the time”, she chuckled.

He smiled and let go. “Well then. _À_ _bientôt²_ , for we will meet again someday. Say goodbye to your husband from me. Oh, and if you plan to stay with Dee until he dies – which will be in another ten years³ – please be so kind and burn all of his books on black magic. They mustn't fall in the wrong hands. They're in a hidden chest in his study, under his desk. You'll have to push it away and look under the floorboards.”

She nodded. “Will do.”

“Thank you. Good luck, Perenelle.”

Then he left.

It was only weeks later, when he was standing on the rail of the ship from Dover to Calais, that he allowed himself to hurt.

As he looked back to the English shore, something strange happened: he wept.

_Huh. I have never cried before._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) mon cher mari = French: my dear husband  
> 2) À bienôt = French: See you then/see you later.  
> 3) John Dee died in 1608 (or 1609, it’s not quite clear).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Faust witnesses the horrors of the Thirty Years War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: war crimes, violence, gore, massacres, rape mention

Twenty-eight years later and it was the Thirty-Years-War.

He was now a military surgeon and seriously regretted having agreed to do this job.

How had he not seen it coming, that he would be completely overworked, because there were too many wounded and too few surgeons?

That most of his colleagues would be inexperienced scholars or medical students, who had never actually performed a surgery before and had no actual clue about how the human body really worked?

That he would have to work in overcrowded, dirty tents, where the sick and wounded were placed on dirty wooden beds and covered in dirty rugs?

That most of the wounded would die of infection, because no clean medical equipment or proper band aids were available?

Sometimes, if it was night-time and no one saw him, he could use his magic to heal one or the other and then “check” in the morning and proclaim that a miracle had happened.

That was the easy, but more dangerous way out, but he was just so tired, of having to saw patients' limbs off, because they were infected. There wasn't enough alcohol available to sedate them, so he either had to knock them out or perform the surgeries, while they were awake. The screams of agony made him nauseous and sometimes they died of shock.

Who the fuck had thought that starting another huge war would be a good fucking idea?!

Oh right! That moronic emperor, Ferdinand II! Stupid fanatically Catholic arsehole.

They were all arseholes, but he was a stupid arsehole extraordinaire!

Could it possibly be that hard to last just a few decades without pointless bloodshed, caused by a fanatic and intolerant idiot?!

And the worst was that the war would get worse in the future and last for another twenty-two years! That it would leave the whole nation in ashes! And that the entirety of Europe would be caught up in it, just because they wanted a piece of the Holy Roman Empire for themselves!

He had never been a pacifist, but this was just … argh!

_Religious war my arse! It's all about a few power-hungry bastards, who claim to fight for a good cause!_

If he hadn't hated the rulers of Europe before, he certainly did now.

But here he was anyway. On the Protestant side. Treating wounded soldiers and _Landsknechte_ _¹_ , who would soon go back to slaughtering both enemies and civilians, who would plunder, rape and torture, just for the heck of it. Especially if they were broke or unemployed.

Good thing he'd had no faith in humanity in the first place, because it definitely would have been shattered by now.

Humans were nasty creatures.

They were animals – the worst animals of all.

And then they had the audacity to claim to be the crown of creation, made in the image of God.

At the very next truce between the Protestant Electors and the Roman Catholic Emperor, he decided to emigrate.

This didn't end up happening.

He was a dutiful man.

And so many people needed a physician, far more so than in times of peace. That was just how war worked.

He couldn't leave them alone.

It was time to go back to his life as an itinerant doctor.

Never in his entire cursed existence had he been so appalled.

Never.

It was the evening of the 20th of May 1631 and Magdeburg was being sacked².

He had been unable to get out in time and now he was witnessing the worst side of humanity.

The imperial troops had attacked in the morning and were massacring everyone they came across.

Just a few months before, it had been a flourishing city and now it was completely in ashes and two thirds of the population were dead.

Invisibly, he wandered aimlessly through the ruins, forlorn, disorientated.

He was numb.

He was detached from reality.

Everything seemed like a dream.

He barely registered the pillagers around him, swarming through the city and looking for innocents to torture and massacre in the worst ways, barely registered the fire everywhere.

This was it.

This was war incarnate.

Death and destruction.

Horribly mangled corpses of people of all ages, sexes and social standings, raped, tortured and murdered by savage mercenaries, who hadn't been paid in months and were now less than human.

He had seen the brutality of the Swedish troops, but this was even worse.

This was humanity regressing to a primeval state that no one knew of yet.

But somehow he felt as if it wasn't real.

As if this wasn't really happening.

He knew that this was his brain offering him a way out of the situation, preventing him from thinking about what was happening, so he wouldn't break under the horror.

His trance was a defence mechanism.

A useless defence mechanism, as he was quickly and cruelly yanked back to reality, when he tripped over something.

As he tried to regain his balance, he looked down to see what he had just stumbled over and froze.

It was the body of a little girl, no older than six. Her blood was everywhere, even-

He emptied the contents of his stomach onto another corpse nearby. Not that there was much – he hadn't eaten in two days.

The other corpse was that of a mercenary, lying face-down with his head split open.

Behind him was the body of a woman clutching a bloody rock. Probably she had caught him red-handed and bashed his skull in from behind, only to be slain herself. Good woman.

He looked back to the little girl. The agony she had died in was still written on her face in an ugly grimace.

It was in that moment, that he broke.

He fell onto his knees, clutched the little hand and let out choked wails and screams.

Why did God let these things happen?

Why had he created humans and given them a conscience only to allow them to be capable of such unspeakable things and then later claim that the Devil had made them do it?

Why did he allow for someone to touch something as innocent and pure as a child?!

Why?

_Why?_

He didn't cry.

Not all the tears of mankind could possibly have been enough to express all the emotions that were tearing him to pieces.

After a while – a few minutes, maybe – he closed the child's eyes, stood up and walked away.

He swore, if he came across any more invaders committing war atrocities, he would not hold back!

Somehow he managed to leave Magdeburg almost unharmed.

Almost.

Compared to what the deceased people had gone through, that is.

He had a light head injury, a few burns, where savages had set him on fire, cuts and bruises everywhere, his clothing was torn, dirty and blood-stained and he had nearly been … well.

But he was alive.

Well, of course he was alive, he was immortal.

But when they had cornered him, hurt him and attempted to do unspeakable things to him, he had really thought that he would die.

Fortunately he had remembered at the last moment, that he was a black mage.

Just one murmured spell and a finger snap and they had burst into flames.

Their screams of agony had been … oddly cathartic.

“Just a taste of what awaits you in Hell, you monsters”, he had snarled and walked away.

However, as he was stumbling along the river, he was hit by a realisation: He had become a murderer.

Despite practising black magic, he had never killed or seriously harmed anyone before. He had always used his supposedly evil witchcraft to help or to get by.

The worst thing he'd done before that was turning enemies into animals. No harm done.

But now he had lost this last shred of innocence.

There was blood on his hands, both figuratively and literally.

He regretted nothing.

They had deserved it.

So why was he crying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Landsknechte = primarily German-speaking mercenaries, mostly consisting of infantry soldiers with the pike as their main weapon. They were renowned for their prowess in the use of the arcebus and the two-handed sword, but also notorious for their relentless pillaging and plundering, if they didn’t get paid or found no employment. From the late 17th century onward, mercenaries were replaced in favour of standing armies.
> 
> 2) The Sack of Magdeburg began on 20th of May 1631, lasted several days and resulted in the complete destruction of the Protestant city of Mageburg by Catholic Imperial forces. Of formerly about 35 000 inhabitants, about 25 000 were slain, died in fires or in other horrible ways. It is considered the worst massacre of the Thirty Years War.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Faust gets himself a daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of rape and murder.

A few days after the Sack of Magdeburg something strange happened.

A good kind of strange.

Sort of.

He was wandering through wasteland on a muddy road, as he stumbled over a lone girl.

One quick scan of her mind told him that she was barely six years old and, just like him, had survived the sacking and the massacre.

She looked awful on the outside and was obviously traumatised on the inside, but she was alive and didn't seem to be severely ill.

By now he had seen so many orphaned children, that he didn't let it get to him anymore.

Yet, something about her compelled him to stop his journey and go to her.

“Well, who are you, Mägdelein?”, he asked kindly.

It didn't escape him how she winced and recoiled from him.

Only after he had assured her repeatedly, that he was not going to harm her, she relaxed a little.

At least she relaxed enough to ask for food.

He rummaged through his bag (the only thing he had managed to salvage during the sacking) and found a piece of bread, that somehow hadn't grown bad yet.

“This is all I have”, he apologised and handed it to her.

Wistfully he watched, as the half-starved child gobbled up his last provisions.

But when she had eaten almost all of it, she paused. “What about you?”

“It's fine. I had something to eat this morning.”

“You're lying! There is no food!”

_What a perceptive child._

He smiled bitterly. “You're right. I'm just as hungry as you are. But I'm a grown-up, I can last longer without food.”

And starving was nothing new to him anyway; in his childhood he and his mother had often starved during winter, especially when the harvest had been bad. And there had been nothing they could have done about it, because serfs had no rights. They were just slaves to their lords and couldn't even marry without their permission. Most of them just resigned themselves to that life, but he had refused – he had had dreams, he had wanted to learn. And his mother had wanted a better future for him.

The child's voice tore him back to the moment: “But you need to eat too.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “Yes, but don't worry, Mägdelein. I can take care of myself.”

Before she could contradict, a sudden gust of wind nearly blew at them.

It was cold for May and while he was wearing a coat, the little girl was wearing a very ragged dressed and the wind made her shudder.

So he took his coat off and draped it over her bony shoulders.

“There”, he cooed, “Much warmer, isn't it?”

The little girl burst into tears and blubbered thanks and “God bless you”s and before he knew what was happening, she was hugging his knees.

He hated hugs. Body contact in general. But if someone else needed a hug, he'd allow it.

“Now, now”, he tutted, “Where are your parents, little one?”

She cried harder and pointed to the sky. “The mean men said that they were heretics and are burning in Hell! But they're not in Hell, right? They haven't done wrong, so they can't be in Hell!”

He felt his heart crack.

When he had read her mind, he had seen that she had seen all that he had seen too.

And she was only six – way too young to understand it all.

“Of course they're not in Hell”, he cooed gently. “Of course they're in Heaven. It's the mean men, who will go to Hell, because they have hurt and killed people.”

“They killed Mama and Papa too”, she wailed. “Papa said I should hide, so I crawled under a pile of wood. And then the mean men came. Mama and Papa begged for mercy, but the mean men didn't listen! They had big swords and one of them struck Papa on the head. There was blood and goo everywhere! And then they pinned Mama down and-”

“Shhhh! Don't think of that anymore”, he cut her off. “It's hurting you to think about it.”

“I want my Mama and Papa back! I want them back! Why can't God give them back?”

“It's not Judgement Day yet. Besides, it would be unfair to all the other Mamas and Papas out there, now wouldn't it?”, he pointed out. “The Lord has called them now. They're in a better place, where no one can hurt them.”

The child stopped crying. “Promise?”, she sniffled.

He smiled and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her tears away.

And he promised.

It was obviously a great comfort to her.

“But I'm still alone”, she said crestfallenly. “I'm hungry … and scared … what if I meet more evil men? What if they hurt me like Mama and Papa?”

Now his heart broke.

He couldn't leave her alone.

“You can come with me”, he offered. “I can protect you and teach you everything you need to know. And at the next place we will get provisions and nice clothes and then we will leave this place and go far away from all this horror.”

The girl considered. Then she smiled tearfully and nodded.

“Well, then! What is your name, Mägdelein?”

He already knew it, of course (Margarete Leibert), but he had to act as if he hadn't read her mind twice.

She blinked, stretched out her hand and said: “I'm Gretchen. And who are you, Sir?”

_Oh right. I haven't introduced myself either._

He grinned, stood back up and bowed elegantly. “Of course, how rude of me. My name is Dr. Johann Georg Faust, at your service. But you can-”

“Can I call you 'Papa'?”

His breath hitched.

He'd never had a family before (obviously, since he couldn't marry).

Of course he had carnal desires, but it was nigh impossible to indulge them without revealing himself. Once he'd accidentally conceived, but he had aborted the child (which was dangerous as well as punishable by death) he had neither wanted nor been able to take care of.

“Papa” was certainly the last honorific he was deserving of.

“Do you really want me to be your father?”, he questioned and was startled at the shakiness of his voice.

She nodded eagerly.

The innocent and childish trust returning to her eyes (and all for _him_ ) awoke something in his soul.

He chuckled hoarsely. “Then you can call me that.”

She gave him another tight hug.

Then he picked her up and cradled her in his arms (he just about managed to, the hunger had weakened him, but she was tiny and underweight).

This way he carried her to the next place where they could rest and get provisions, before they left this cursed land for good.

And that was how Dr. Johann Georg Faust got himself a daughter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Faust catches a severe case of fatherly affection disease. XD

Turned out that little Gretchen was even smarter than he had thought.

She didn't know what alchemy was, but figured out pretty quickly by watching him work. She also realised quickly, that he was a necromancer, even though she didn't know that word either.

At first she was afraid of his magic, like any child would.

But that fear was quickly replaced by curiosity.

Unfortunately he also discovered quickly, that she was very clingy, needy and shy and when he wasn't too busy, she clung to him like a leech.

Of course, she was a traumatised, orphaned six-year-old child.

But the things he had gone through had made him so averse to body contact, that just shaking someone's hand made his skin crawl and being embraced could send him into a panic attack.

However, the child needed physical proximity and so he had to push away his discomfort for her sake.

One night things got a bit strange.

A nightmare had startled him awake and he was trying to calm himself down, when he felt a tiny hand shake his shoulder.

When his eyes had grown used to the dark, he saw Gretchen stand at his bedside and nearly jumped. Even in the dark of the room, he could see that she was wan and weary.

“Papa? I had a bad dream”, she sniffled. “Can I sleep with you?”

He hated seeing his daughter (it still sounded odd to him) like this. Also, her puppy eyes were impossible to resist anyway.

“Alright, hop in.”

She beamed at him, crawled in and huddled up to him.

It was only then, that he realised that-

_Eh, whatever. I'm too tired too freak out._

And Gretchen seemed to be too tired to be surprised or even confused.

“ _It's like cuddling with Mama”_ , he could hear her think.

Her breathing evened out pretty quickly.

To his own surprise he also felt himself doze off really quickly.

The next morning was a bit awkward, because she questioned him on it.

It was a bit difficult to explain himself in a way that a six-year-old girl could understand it.

But once she did get it, she just tilted her head and smiled: “Alright.”

And he grew not just a little bit fonder of her.

He kept his word to take her as far and quickly out of the war zone as possible.

However, as they came to the next city, he found himself facing a problem he hadn't had in quite a while: he had no money. He had his Philosopher's Stone (that he had managed to salvage somehow), but he needed more ingredients to make gold – ingredients he didn't have.

So he had no other choice than to go to a money lender and ask for credit. Normally he never borrowed money, on principle. But he had a daughter to feed.

“You have two weeks to pay it back”, the money lender told him.

“Don't worry”, he muttered, “You'll get it back quicker than that.”

“Just out of curiosity, what do you need five Thaler for? Not to be nosy, but people usually don't ask for less than a hundred.”

He shrugged: “Eh, you know … stuff. Anyway, I'll be able to pay it back by the end of this week. Have a nice day.”

He hurried from store to store,then back to the hotel he was staying at with his daughter and wasted no time in making himself richer.

“Can I help you, Papa?”, Gretchen asked curiously, as she watched him fill the powders and liquids into the distillers.

He shook his head. “No, Gretchen, you're still too little.”

“Am not!”, she huffed. “I'm six! I'm not little!”

With a fond chuckle he ruffled her golden curls. “Next time I'll show you how to help me.”

She pouted, but gave in.

His initial impression, that Gretchen was a clever girl, was once again confirmed, when he began to actually teach her.

It took only a few months for her to master writing and he was pleasantly surprised to find that she already could read and knew basic maths. Then again, basic mathematics had the benefit of not requiring literacy; counting wasn't difficult.

And she was talented in other ways as well.

One day she beamed at him, as if he was the best thing in her whole world.

“Papa, Papa, I made this for you!”

She held up a piece of parchment and he had to blink a few tears away.

It was a drawing of him with his alchemic equipment, brewing his magic potions and herself helping him with it. And it was well-drawn. Like a doodle by a famous Italian renaissance painter.

The necromancing doctor felt himself melt like butter.

_Jesus and Maria, help me handle how adorable she is!!!_

“Careful, it will crumble!”, Gretchen warned, when he clutched the drawing to his chest.

Then she questioned anxiously: “Is it good? Do you like it, Papa?”

“I love it! It's perfect!”, he croaked.

Then he put the drawing onto the table, so he could scoop her up in his arms.

Showing fondness had never been his strong suit, but damn if he wasn't the proudest, most loving father in the world right now!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Faust and his new-found child travel to the East, only for him to encounter old acquaintances.

He hadn't been in the Ottoman Empire in a while.

Partly, because he'd had business in Europe, but mainly, because he spoke no Turkish or Persian and his Arabic was … _unpresentable_.

But when he said “get as far away from there as possible”, he meant it!

Perhaps he would take her even further away some day, but leaving their home nation had been hard enough, both physically and emotionally.

Upon their arrival in Athens, they encountered a Middle Eastern traveller, whom he promptly engaged in a conversation (in Greek, as that turned out to be the common language they spoke best)

The man looked a bit befuddled, when the European addressed him with a genial smile and told him that he wanted to refresh his Arabic, as he planned to go there. But he quickly recovered, laughed heartily and told them that he was Persian.

“I speak Arabic and Turkish too, but seriously? Do we all look the same to you Westerners?!”, he snickered.

He apologised awkwardly and told him that he had never been to the East before. “So I'm travelling to fix that.”

“How very wise!”

“Stop laughing!”, he huffed, “You couldn't tell where I'm from either!”

Now the Persian finally stopped laughing and took a closer look at him.

“Hmm … you're from England, right? With your red hair and-”

Now it was his turn to laugh: “Wrong! Try again.”

“France?”

“No. My daughter and I are from the Holy Roman Empire.”

The other man chuckled: “Alright, you win. Hey, what do you think about staying at my hotel with me? I'm sure my fellow travellers will be delighted to meet fellow Europeans.”

“Fellow travellers?”

“A couple from France. Very nice for Christians, no offence.”

“None taken”, he brushed it off graciously, but felt a bad hunch nagging at his guts.

_A couple from France?_

Gretchen seemed to sense his discomfort and huddled up to him. He smiled fondly and scooped her up in his arms.

“And unlike you, they're fluent in Arabic!”, the Persian added, teasing.

“Well, do you speak German, English or French?!”, he retorted snappishly.

“… Good point. Is that your daughter?”, the Persian asked, “She's so cute!”

“I know, right? The cutest!”, he cooed, while she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

“Is that all your luggage?”, the other inquired and pointed at his medium-sized bag. “It's very little for two people.”

“It's too dangerous to travel with a lot of luggage. Thieves, bandits and plunderers everywhere. I stopped counting how many times we nearly got-”

He stopped himself, when he felt his daughter tremble. He tightened his hold on her and cooed gentle words of comfort, until she stopped shivering.

“Let's not talk about that”, the Persian spoke up, “Come with me. The more the merrier! Like I said, my companions will be delighted to meet you – wait, let me carry that”, he added, when the alchemist tried to pick up his bag, while holding his daughter.

“Thank you”, he nodded gratefully, “By the way, what's your name? I would rather not refer to you as 'the Persian' all the time.”

The Persian stopped dead in his tracks. “By Allah, you're right! I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Reza Ibn Aziz. And you are?”

“Dr. Johann Georg Faust. And this is my little daughter Margarete.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you! Now come along!”

Mr. Ibn Aziz chattered merrily all the way about politics, travellers and merchants from all over the world and the beautiful ladies back in Isfahan.

Once they arrived at the hotel, their guide strolled through several rooms to a parlour, where several people were diverting themselves.

“I'm back!”, he cried cheerfully, “And I brought company!”

The alchemist's bad hunch from earlier was confirmed, when a tall, gaunt blond with silvery eyes and a pince-nez and a tiny, chubby brunette with brown eyes looked up and stared at him in recognition.

“By Mother Mary!”, he gasped.

“You?!”, Nicolas Flamel exclaimed.

“Jean?”, Perenelle Flamel cried out in surprise.

Mr. Ibn Aziz blinked: “You know each other?”

“Yes …”, he admitted, “We used to travel around together, but then we parted, after we had a little … _disagreement_.”

“He's sugarcoating it”, Nicolas clarified to Mr. Ibn Aziz.

“That much is clear”, the Persian deadpanned. “Believe it or not, we do know irony and sarcasm, where I come from.”

The German alchemist nearly jumped, when Gretchen tugged at his collar. “Papa, what is 'irony and sarcasm'? And are these two your friends?”

“I'll explain it later”, he told her. “And they were once.”

Perenelle stood up to greet them properly. She was obviously hurt, when he recoiled from being hugged, but didn't show it.

“It's so good to see you again!”, she said warmly.

“Thank you, Perenelle”, he replied blankly.

“And who is that little mademoiselle?”, she wanted to know.

He smiled: “That's my daughter. Isn't she just the cutest?”

He felt Gretchen's blush more than he saw it and she hid her face in the crook of his neck.

Perenelle laughed sweetly: “Well then, _ma petite mignonne_ _¹_ , how old are you?”

Gretchen mumbled in broken French, that she was seven and buried her face further into his neck.

He melted like butter and so did the Flamels and Mr. Ibn Aziz, because Gretchen was way too adorable for her own good.

In the late evening, when Gretchen was asleep and Mr. Ibn Aziz had retreated (to pray and because alcohol was apparently taboo for Muslims), that he and the Flamels sat together over cups of beer and talked.

“Did you burn Dee's notes?”, he inquired.

Perenelle nodded. “Yes, we did. We burned all the notes on black magic that we could find.”

Nicolas sighed: “And then we had to leave England immediately, because Perenelle had some … _disputes_ with Dee, before he died and …”

“He insulted Nic”, Perenelle huffed. “So I cooked dinner for him in his last months. You know, some people just can't appreciate good food.”

“… You poisoned him.”

She frowned: “Poisoned is such a strong word! I just … mistook a few mushrooms and he was more than eighty years old.”

“… That's really creepy. Alright, I'm not letting either of you near my little Gretchen!”, he suddenly decided.

“Gretchen? Is that her name?” Nicolas totally butchered the pronunciation.

He shrugged: “It's Margarete actually. But Gretchen is shorter.”

“Is she really your daughter? She doesn't look anything like you.”

He sighed: “I adopted her a year ago. We both survived the Sack of Magdeburg. Her parents were both murdered and I found her wandering through a barren wasteland half-starved and disorientated. I … I just couldn't leave her alone. Not her. She was only six.”

Nicolas and Perenelle exchanged a sombre look.

“We heard of the sacking”, the blond Frenchman stated softly. “They talked about it everywhere in Europe. What we heard sounded horrible-”

“Horrible?!”, he echoed with a hollow laugh, “Horrible is not the word. There is no word. What we saw … it _cannot be put into words, nor bewailed with tears_ ².”

“So you two were really there? In all the horror?”

“Yes. Gretchen wasn't seriously harmed, when I found her, but she was in shock. My poor little girl saw her parents get mishandled in the worst way possible, before they got murdered. She managed to escape unnoticed, but … Holy Mother Mary, she is just a little _child_!”

“What about you?”, Perenelle asked gently.

All the traumatic memories returned to the forefront of his conscience. It hurt so much, he almost burst into tears. Instead he bit his lip, until it bled.

“Don't”, he warned, when Perenelle stood up to hug him.

He needed a few minutes to compose himself, before he told them everything – telepathically, just in case Gretchen would wake up.

At some point he gave up trying to appear aloof and strong and cried into his hands.

Normally he wasn't actually that emotional.

But he had nearly been raped and murdered several times, seen that very thing happen to countless people, had committed his first murders, had seen fire and brutally mangled corpses everywhere and so many other horrors, his body still bore the horrific burning scars and it was just all too much!

“Don't!”, he repeated, when the Flamels stood both up, but they didn't listen this time.

He almost screamed, when he felt their arms around him; he knew it was irrational, that he had nothing to fear from them, but he couldn't help it!

Nicolas was the first to notice and retreat. “Perenelle, let go. We're making it worse.”

She looked even more hurt than before, but obeyed her husband.

The younger alchemist soon stopped shivering and panicking and breathed calmly – as calmly as his bandages allowed, that was.

After a while he stopped weeping and glared weakly at them. “Don't ever try to hug me again. I hate body contact even more today than I did back then.”

“I'm sorry”, Perenelle apologised sadly, “We didn't know.”

“Of course you didn't. Unlike me, you have never seen a war zone in your life, despite being so much older than I!”

“We didn't want to see the horrors of war”, Nicolas explained quietly. “Witnessing the Black Death in our youth was terrible enough. What were you doing there anyway?”

The German alchemist lowered his head. “I … I just wanted to help. Civilians have it so hard to find good physicians these days … I didn't mean to stay at the forefront of the war, but there is nowhere to hide from it in the Empire. And when they began to besiege Magdeburg … I did consider leaving, but there were so many sick and I couldn't bring myself to abandon them. Well, and then it was too late.”

Nicolas instinctively took his hand, but retracted it immediately, when the younger man flinched.

“You're a good man”, the blond said gently.

The ginger-haired man sneered: “Ohhh, so you finally acknowledge that I'm a _man_ and _not_ a woman? What _ever_ made you change your mind, Monsieur Nicolas The-Lord-doesn't-make-mistakes Flamel?”

“… You're still angry.”

He sighed and shook his head. “No. I was angry, but not anymore. I got tired of being angry after a while. I am, however, still hurt. And looking back, I'm also seriously disappointed.”

These words made the French couple look at him miserably, which didn't surprise him. He knew that the “Not angry, just disappointed”-phrase was a lot worse for most people, but it was the truth. And he saw no point in sugarcoating it.

“You didn't mind, that I have magical and psychic powers. Not even that I was only a Catholic on paper (I have converted to Protestantism, by the way) and then you fussed over _this_?!”

He pointed at his chest, that was hidden and flattened by the bandages he was wearing under his clothing.

“That was just hurtful. I thought you would be more understanding than this. That you would be kinder. And _wiser_.”

These words obviously cut even deeper with the other two, but he didn't care.

“But you were no different from anyone else, who knew. And I felt betrayed. Perenelle failed to understand, but unlike _you_ , Nicolas, she _tried_. You didn't even bother with that! I'm almost 170 years old now and the only people in my life, who have ever understood and accepted me for who I am were my mother (even though she didn't like it) and now my daughter. My mother was an illiterate serf and Gretchen is only seven. _You_ are two ingenious immortal alchemists. I know you're a product of your time, but that doesn't give you the right to judge m-”

“I'm sorry.”

“… Pardon?”

“I'm sorry”, the French alchemist repeated. “You're right. I have no right to judge you and I never did. I was supposed to be a friend to you and accept you for what you are and instead I pushed you away and treated you like a freak. I'm still not sure, if I understand it. But I do know now, that I was in the wrong and you never deserved any of it. And I'm sorry.”

The apology was followed by silence, broken only by the toll of the church bell. For the split of a second, he was startled that it was midnight already. Then he tore his attention away from the distant tolling, back to his companions.

It was only long after the last toll of the bell had sounded, that he broke the silence: “Took you long enough. I have waited thirty-two years for that apology.”

Then he cried again.

This time he allowed them to at least hold his hands.

“I missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Ma petite mignonne - French: my little cute one (female)  
> 2) A contemporary's description of the events during the Sack of Magdeburg, 20th May 1631.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone goes shopping.

“So what is a Persian doing in Athens?”, he asked, when they were having breakfast the next morning. “Aren't Persia and the Ottoman Empire enemies and at war right now?”

Mr. Ibn Aziz sighed: “Yes, but … let's just say I _really_ needed to get away from my father.”

That made the necromancer curious and he read the younger man's mind. What he saw was depressing, but also hilarious in a morbid way.

“Overbearing parents?”, Perenelle guessed.

“Suffocating. I only managed to get away on the pretence of learning-”

“At least they did let you leave at all”, Perenelle sighed, “I remember when my second husband was still alive. I just needed to look pale, cough, sneeze or scratch and he would panic, grab me and chain me to the bed. Granted, we had had an epidemic shortly before¹, but _Lord_! It didn't help anyhow. I caught the plague anyway.”

“The _plague_???”, Mr. Ibn Aziz exclaimed in awe. “How in Allah's name did you survive?!”

“Let's not digress from the topic”, the German necromancer continued, “At least you all have or had father's who loved you and cared. I never even knew mine.”

Awkward silence ensued, until Gretchen jumped onto her father's lap and looked up to him with puppy eyes.

“Papa, what are you all talking about?”, she demanded to know; they had been speaking Greek the whole time and she hadn't understood a word.

He laughed and told her in German: “Just boring grown-up stuff.”

The child shrugged: “Alright. Hey, Papa, can we buy sweets today?” Her puppy eyes intensified.

He smiled kindly: “Of course, sunshine. We will go to the market later and you will get lots of sweets and pretty things.”

_Right after I have made more gold._

“YAAAYY!”, Gretchen cheered and everyone laughed.

Nicolas translated the dialogue for Mr. Ibn Aziz, which made the Persian chuckle.

Perenelle turned to him and whispered in French: “Do you even have enough money on you?”

He shook his head: “Not right now, I have to make gold fir-”

“You two can come with us”, she suggested, “We also want to go on a shopping tour. We will afford the more expensive stuff and you will just pay us back later?”

“Perenelle, you know my opinion about borrowing money. Besides, I have lots of worthless metal on me …” He reached into his pocket and revealed a handful of tin mints.

“You carry counterfeit money on you?!”

“…”

“By St. Jacques, Jean!”

He smirked.

They went to the market in the afternoon, all of them with appropriate amounts of cash.

His wallet was significantly heavier, with the gold and silver mints being no longer counterfeit.

He was walking with his daughter by the hand and the Flamels and Mr. Ibn Aziz behind them, chatting in Arabic.

He understood Arabic a lot better than he spoke it and so he heard Mr. Ibn Aziz ask: “Seriously, though. How did you survive the plague, Madame?”

It made him turn around in interest.

Perenelle answered, like it was the most natural thing in the world (and he knew it was to her): “Through the tender care and prayers of my late husband – the Lord bless his soul – and the mercy of God.”

Nicolas got cranky at the praise of his predecessor, which made the younger alchemist laugh.

“You're not jealous at someone who's long gone, are you?”, he teased and the Frenchman pouted.

Perenelle laughed kindly and gave her husband a peck on the cheek, which was at once requited.

Mr. Ibn Aziz cringed: “Could you two _not_ do that in public, please?”

The Flamels giggled and apologised.

_Sweet Mother Mary … almost 300 years and they're still crazy lovebirds!_

He had never really enjoyed going to the market.

It was just so hard to tune out all the overlapping thoughts of the people around him.

Just the more reason for him to be glad that he had a daughter now; Gretchen's sweet and innocent thoughts were easy to focus on.

So he wasn't as anxious as he normally would have been, when he and the others returned to the hotel.

Gretchen noticed and was consequently more relaxed too. And also because they were carrying lots of boxes with things they all had liked at the market.

Later he would store their belongings in his magical bag (a tiny leather pocket he always wore around his neck). Hoping that the Persian wouldn't notice and ask questions. After all he didn't know how the people in the East thought about witchcraft and necromancy.

“Now, now”, he scolded Gretchen, when she wanted to gorge herself with nougat. “Don't eat too much or you will have a tummy ache later. Besides, dinner will be in two hours.”

Gretchen pouted, but stopped eating.

“Also, we've been neglecting your lessons in the last days. We need to catch up on your Latin, Greek and French.”

Her pout disappeared and she tilted her head in curiosity.

Perenelle stared at him. “You're already teaching her Latin, French and Greek? Even though she's only seven?!”

He shrugged: “What can I say? She's a genius and a prodigy. And she's my daughter. I will teach her how to use her genius to its fullest potential. So what if she can't become a scholar, because she's a girl. When she grows up, she will surpass them all.”

Perenelle sighed: “Of course, that's so you. No false humility, huh? But don't you think that's a bit pushy?”

Now Gretchen spoke up: “It's okay, Madame. I want to be just as smart as Papa, when I grow up.”

He smirked.

There was nothing quite like getting your ego stroked by your own children.


End file.
